


Please God Tell Me We're Dreaming

by ellevaire



Series: When the Sun Kicks Out [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courfeyrac is accidentally loud, Gen, Grantaire is a literal baby, Joly is a saint the world needs more Joly, Petitaire, baby!R, what did we expect, which is cute but mostly sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellevaire/pseuds/ellevaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prologue. An exclamation of surprise. An offer. (Or, Courfeyrac is put in time out, Enjolras did NOT sign up for this, and Bahorel has seen a lot of shit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please God Tell Me We're Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing explicit, but there's like, mentions of implied abuse. So. Y'know.

Grantaire went missing on a Wednesday. Well, almost missing. Enjolras hadn’t really had time to get worried, because while Grantaire was rarely late to the university’s Social Justice Club (and Enjolras really needed to think of a better name, so R might stop calling them the Social Justice Fanboys) his schedule wasn’t always predictable and he sometimes just didn’t show up. Which was fine.

And then Jehan had shown up twenty minutes late—which _was_ unusual— _and_ with a toddler in tow, which was both not usual and not fine. The child was nestled in Jehan’s arms, dark curls poking out from what appeared to be an enormously lumpy oatmeal-colored sweater.

“What is that?”

Jehan’s glare was a terrifying thing, enhanced by a lot of dark eyeliner. It softened quickly as he looked to the child in his arms, which was possibly even more terrifying.

“ _That_ is a child,” Jehan said, and Enjolras nearly shuddered at the unspoken “asshole.” Jehan stepped closer to the table. “Tell them your name, love.”

The child shook his head, face still buried in Jehan’s navy peacoat.

“Look, there’s people who want to see you, hmm?”

The child lifted his head up long enough to whisper something in Jehan’s ear.

“Dadda isn’t here, I promise. Look, hmm? What’s your name?”

“Awe.” The child finally turned and looked at Enjolras, immediately sucking his thumb into his mouth.

“No, honey, your big name.”

The child didn’t say anything else, but continued staring at Enjolras. It was unnerving, but Enjolras couldn’t quite—

“He can’t pronounce his Rs,” Jehan said shakily at the same time he recognized those eyes.

“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asked, rising suddenly.

Grantaire hid his face again and Jehan sighed, setting down his bag and removing his coat.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered, moving close to Jehan. “Can I?” he asked Grantaire, and then, looking uncertainly at Jehan, “Can I?”

R, to Enjolras’ surprise, reached out to be held. He was wearing a t-shirt that was several sizes too enormous—one that said “LIKES BOYS,” one that Enjolras recognized as adult R’s shirt—under Jehan’s (rather horrible) cardigan.

“What’s your name?” R asked, staring at Enjolras with disconcertingly clear eyes.

“Enjolras,” said Enjolras, shaking at the sound of Grantaire’s voice.

“Pitty ‘Jolwas,” R said, reaching out and resting a small hand on Enjolras’ cheek. “Pitty, pitty Jolwas.”

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Courfeyrac shouted.

Grantaire flinched and started crying, Enjolras’ hand flew up to cradle him protectively, Joly went a shade of chalk white that was, frankly, deeply alarming, and Bahorel shrugged.

“Seriously?” Courfeyrac asked, gaping at Bahorel.

“You’d think this was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, but, oddly, no.”

“I forgot to sleep again, didn’t I?” Feuilly asked mournfully.

Enjolras nearly choked on his spit as Grantaire continued wailing.

“You,” Jehan said venomously, pointing at Courfeyrac. “You are in time out.”

“FOR WHAT?”

“You made Grantaire cry,” he spit, shoving and half-kicking Courfeyrac toward the corner of the room.

“What have you seen weirder than this?” Marius asked, the picture of innocence.

“You are not telling _that_ story,” Enjolras muttered, going very red as Bahorel opened his mouth. Feuilly had the good sense to quickly press his hand over Bahorel’s mouth. Feuilly was a good friend, Enjolras thought.

“Ask your girlfriend sometime,” Bahorel said, once he regained full control of his mouth. “And, ow, fucker.” He hit Feuilly sharply in the back of the head.

“This is real life, isn’t it?”

 

“I ran home to grab my bag and just…found him like this,” Jehan says forty minutes later, after Grantaire has been calmed down and slowly introduced to the rest of the group.

“Just like…?” Courfeyrac gestures wildly.

“Yeah…usually he comes home after class and sleeps for a couple hours on Wednesdays and today he was just kind of…crying in bed,” Jehan says, face turned down and blushing furiously.

"And we're not going to talk about how _fucking weird_ this is?"

"You're still in time out," Jehan says. "Silence."

"I mean. It is a valid point," Combeferre offers, glancing at Courfeyrac, who is, in fact, still sitting in the corner.

Grantaire snuffles in his sleep, shifting minutely in Enjolras’ arms. He’d been passed back to Enjolras after being suitably fussed over, mostly because he’d _wanted_ Enjolras, which, okay, that was odd, children tended to avoid him (though Jehan and Joly were close seconds in received affection.) He’d shortly thereafter fallen asleep on Enjolras’ lap.

“What are we going to do with him?” Enjolras asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“I think it might be best,” Combeferre says, “If R’s in a place where he can have constant attention.” He smiles politely at Jehan. “I don’t want to implicate that your care has been inadequate, but I also don’t want to assume you will take full responsibility of caring for a child. How do you feel on the matter?”

“While I don’t mind, per se, I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle…I’d do it in a heartbeat. But if there’s a better option I’m open to any and all suggestions,” Jehan says.

“We could do it,” Joly says seriously, face lacking any trace of his usual good humor. “I mean, there are five of us in the house, six, even, if Bossuet’s crashing. Someone is almost always home, and Combeferre and I are both equipped to handle children.”

“He could have my bed. It’s lower to the ground and close to E’s room,” Courfeyrac offers, looking at Enjolras, and Enjolras tries not to panic.

An extremely selfish part of his brain wonders when this became his responsibility, but he’s still nodding, regardless.

“Yes—we can—fuck—sorry. I agree. I think that would be an okay option.” He watches Jehan’s face relax with relief. There’s really no ideal option, but Grantaire needs someone, and it’s fine like this, when he’s cradled in Enjolras’ lap, fists bunched in the old, soft sweater Enjolras had thrown on this morning.

It’s totally fine.

 

The meeting hadn’t lasted long after that. They stayed long enough to make a quick list of things to buy and split up from there. Enjolras, for his part, was going home with Courfeyrac. It had been unanimously decided that, no, Enjolras, really, you both just need to go home. And he had been assured that, it’ll be fine, Courf’ll go too, please try to stop looking like you’re going to throw up.

Grantaire had awoken just as they were about to leave. He’d let Enjolras wrap him in Jehan’s sweater again, sleepy and pliant, and stayed that way on the walk home. By the time Courfeyrac and Enjolras had reached their creaky old house, R’s eyes were heavy and his blinks were slow.

He’d lasted until about nine-thirty, right after Combeferre had returned with the essentials: a baby gate, a toothbrush, baby wipes, snacks suitable for a small child. (“I’d guess around two-and-a-half,” he’d said earlier.) Joly hadn’t returned with clothes until after R had fallen asleep. They’d placed him in Courfeyrac’s bed, in the room across from Enjolras, where he’s been sleeping since.

“Enjolras, breathe,” Combeferre says from the desk chair, and glares until he complies.

“What do we do?” Enjolras half-whispers, letting _Social Theory: The Multicultural and Classic Readings_ fall shut, the _thud_ muffled by the bedspread. He sounds hysterical even to himself, and takes another two deep breaths while Combeferre crosses the room.

“We take care of him,” Combeferre says, sitting next to him on the bed.

Enjolras breathes again. It’s not working; his breaths are gasping, ugly things and when he closes his eyes he can feel the tears ripening behind his eyelids.

And then Combeferre is everywhere, draping a blanket around his shoulders and pulling it tight, pulling Enjolras into his side and it’s awkward because their knees knock but Enjolras feels secure for the first time since this afternoon.

“It’s just—I was going to tell him,” he says, and Combeferre just sighs and tightens his arms around Enjolras.

“You will.” Combeferre sighs, is interrupted by a cry from the other room. There’s a thud, and a few small cries, then silence.

Enjolras nearly trips over his feet in his haste to scramble off the bed and into R’s (Courfeyrac’s) room, half jumping over the baby gate blocking the doorway. Combeferre, ever graceful, is right behind him, turning on the bookshelf lamp with suspiciously practiced ease.

Courfeyrac’s bed is empty, covers tangled and skewed as though they were jerked violently out of place.

“Ah,” Enjolras says, turning away from the bed. “R?”

There’s a whimper from the closet and Enjolras sighs with relief. Grantaire couldn’t have gone far anyway, not with the gate up. Enjolras crouches down, peering into the small, darkened space of the closet. The low rack is hung full of shirts, obscuring the back wall, but a small pair of feet pokes out from below.

When Enjolras gently parts the shirts, Grantaire is huddled in a ball, tears streaming down his face. He’s still wearing the same shirt they’d found him in, as Jehan and Joly had returned with clothes after he’d fallen asleep.

“Grantaire?” He reaches out and R dives to avoid him, burying himself behind a section of sweaters.

Enjolras trips to his feet as Grantaire starts wailing, and looks around desperately before realizing that Combeferre is gone. The panic sets in again, but Combeferre returns a moment later with Joly, thank god. R’s cries are _loud_ , loud enough to wake the house and loud enough that they might be breaking Enjolras’ heart a little.

It takes a lot of coaxing—mostly from Joly, because he’s wonderful with kids—to get Grantaire out of the closet. Even then, he sits on the floor and clings tightly to the bed skirt, pulling his shirt over his knees. Tears streak his cheeks and Enjolras wants to cry but it’s not going to help the situation, that much, he knows.

Joly lays on the floor, flat on his belly until he’s looking up at Grantaire, chin resting on his arms.

“What’s wrong, little R?” His voice is gentle in a way that Enjolras knows his own is not, and he envies this of Joly.

“Imma bad boy, only bad boys wet th’ bed.”

Joly looks him over carefully.

“You don’t look like a bad boy to me.”

Grantaire leans forward and whispers to Joly, tears welling up again.

“Dadda isn’t here, Grantaire, I promise you.”

“Is Jolwas mad?”

Enjolras crouches next to Joly. “I’m not mad, Grantaire. Accidents happen. It’s okay.” He reaches out, stroking R’s unruly curls away from his face. “Okay?” Grantaire’s lip wobbles ominously.

“Come on, little R, let’s get you a bath and some new jammies, hmm?” Joly sits up, holding out his hand.

Grantaire takes it after a moment, and Joly leads him into the bathroom, where Combeferre is already running a bath. Enjolras strips the bed then takes the sheets down to the laundry room and tosses them into the wash. A small pile of freshly laundered clothes is sitting inside the barrel of the dryer, still warm and much too small to belong to anyone who lives in the house. Enjolras rifles through the mess until he finds pajamas.

Joly helps Grantaire dress in the green frog onesie, even pulling the hood over his damp curls. The pajamas delight Grantaire, who giggles and hops around for a solid two minutes before quickly losing energy. He gives Joly a hug around the knees before reaching for Enjolras, and Joly raises his hands in a, “what-can-you-do” gesture as Enjolras carries Grantaire to his room.

Combeferre has graciously cleared their books from Enjolras’ bed, and it’s easy to settle Grantaire next to him on the queen-sized mattress. He smells like baby shampoo and fabric softener, which is so profoundly different from grown-R’s usual smell of cigarettes, turpenoid, and oil paints that Enjolras very suddenly feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying again until he feels a small hand on his face.

“Don’t be sad, Jolwas,” R whispers, scooting closer under the covers.

Enjolras allows himself affection he’s careful to control around the adult Grantaire and kisses the top of R’s head before they both fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing and why is this happening how has this become a series? These are the questions that keep me up at night. Title from Dreaming by Smallpools. Series title from The National. Again.


End file.
